![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[FIC]: already i'm ready
already i'm ready, nc-17, kris/suho.
look at me, come into my arms, don't worry about anything for today.
drenched under the lights is this
town town town town
coming to me is
you you you you
tour small lips,
your moist hair
i'm falling in love
we're just dancing on the floor
i keep falling for you
we're just dancing in the rain
your eyes that look at me
are so hot
b.a.p, "dancing in the rain"
ALREADY I'M READY
kris/suho
Wu Fan wakes up and finds the dorm suspiciously silent.
On any ordinary non-schedule day, the soundtrack to Wu Fan’s morning routine is comprised of, at the very least, Jongdae’s shower vocal warmups and the clatter of Yixing’s pots and pans in the kitchen. Occasionally, he’s also treated to Tao’s shower renditions of Big Bang songs and Minseok’s soft but endlessly beleaguered chiding as people drop clothes and on the floor and leaves plates on the table. (Wu Fan is thankful that Lu Han, at least, is quiet, even if that quiet usually means he’s planning something.) The M dorm is not the calmest of places, especially in the mornings, and especially when everyone is looking forward to a day of not having to do anything in particular.
Today, though, Wu Fan wakes up and hears nothing. No one is singing or cooking or cleaning or laughing. It’s quiet, uninterrupted except by the noise of traffic outside Wu Fan’s closed window. Wu Fan stretches out in bed and props his hands under his head, wondering sleepily what time it is (and then wondering if it even matters).
It’s nice, kind of. The absence of any kind of pressure, no alarm clock, no members who need Wu Fan to do anything. Weird, but nice, that the only thing that forces Wu Fan out of bed is his own stomach’s need for food.
He wanders into the kitchen in his boxers, yawning, his hair pulled up into a messy ponytail. Yixing makes fun of Wu Fan relentlessly for it, but if he’s home alone, Wu Fan wants to be comfortable, and that means keeping his slightly-too-long hair a decent distance from his eyes.
Wu Fan pulls the fridge open and finds tupperware—leftovers from the night before, and a note from Yixing that reads “Good morning, sleepyhead!” Wu Fan laughs and pulls the container out of the fridge, and he’s halfway through a bite, scratching idly at his stomach, before he spots Junmyeon sitting on the couch.
To his credit, Wu Fan manages not to choke on the bite of rice he’d just put in his mouth. “Junmyeon?” he says, the words muffled through the food. “How long have you been here?”
Junmyeon looks up and smiles, the kind of sweet, guileless smile that Wu Fan knows was the origin of the Junmen nickname. “I finished my errands and meetings early,” he says, lifting up his phone to show Wu Fan the screen (although from this distance, it’s too blurry to make out). “I came up afterwards. You know it’s like one in the afternoon, right?”
Wu Fan pauses, his mouth hanging open for a second before he remembers there’s still rice in there. He chews quickly and swallows, then asks, “I think my Korean failed me for a second. What time?”
“One-fourteen, to be exact,” Junmyeon says. He laughs and puts his phone down on the table. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”
There’s really, when Wu Fan thinks about it, no logical explanation for Junmyeon to be here right now. It is Kris’ birthday, that’s true, but if the other members had given him a lie-in and a quiet dorm as a gift, then what else did Junmyeon have planned? “Afternoon,” Wu Fan replies, carefully putting the lid back on the leftovers. “Not that I don’t like seeing your face, but what’s the occasion?”
Junmyeon stands up and stretches his arms over his head, and Wu Fan looks everywhere except the strip of pale skin exposed by the lifted hem of his t-shirt. “Your birthday, obviously,” Junmyeon says, hooking his thumbs into his pockets as he wanders into the kitchen to join Wu Fan. “Duizhang is turning another year older. Doesn’t that count as occasion enough?”
“That’s not it,” Wu Fan says. He tries his best to suppress a shiver at the way the Mandarin syllables sound on Junmyeon’s tongue, although Wu Fan is fairly sure that’s some kind of positive reinforcement thing that has nothing to do with the actual word.
“Then?” Junmyeon asks. He lifts his eyebrows. In the set of them Wu Fan can see suppressed amusement, and there’s something mischievous tucked into the corners of Junmyeon’s smile. Everyone thinks Junmyeon is an angel, and it’s true that he’s hardworking and selfless to a fault, but no one is that innocent. Least of all Junmyeon.
It’s just that things get dangerous when Wu Fan and Junmyeon are alone together, that’s all. Just that lately, Junmyeon keeps doing things to Wu Fan that Wu Fan doesn’t want to admit he likes.
“Nothing,” Wu Fan says. He meets Junmyeon’s gaze, almost defiant.
“Then there’s no problem,” Junmyeon says, reaching up to curl his fingers around the back of Wu Fan’s neck. “Right?”
Wu Fan isn’t sure he’d say there’s no problem. He’s pretty sure that the fact that he’s starting to get hard and they’ve barely even touched counts as a problem. But he’s also pretty sure it’s not a problem he wants to fix, so Wu Fan just shrugs a little and says, “No problem.”
Junmyeon kisses him then, using the hand at the back of his neck to pull Wu Fan down until their mouths collide. The first time is always gentle—soft, exploratory. Surprisingly sweet, or perhaps not surprisingly, considering—like a greeting, and kind of like an invitation. Junmyeon’s lips are soft and part easily under Wu Fan’s, giving him the chance to lead, although Wu Fan knows that won’t last long—sometimes Wu Fan thinks that Junmyeon’s favorite part of this is letting Wu Fan thinks he has control, and then taking it away. (That’s probably Wu Fan’s favorite part of this, too, if he has to be honest.)
For a couple long minutes, they do nothing but kiss, Wu Fan’s hands coming to rest on Junmyeon’s hips as Junmyeon presses closer. Junmyeon’s other hand rests just above the waistband of Wu Fan’s boxers, his thumb rubbing tiny soothing circles against the curve of Wu Fan’s hipbone—a kind of tiny possessive touch, almost innocent but still enough to have goosebumps rising on Wu Fan’s skin. He won’t admit it aloud, at least not in his right mind, but Wu Fan likes it when Junmyeon touches him like this, casual like Junmyeon has a right to his body.
Breaking the kiss with a smile, Junmyeon murmurs, “Always so sensitive, duizhang.” He drags his fingertips lightly up Wu Fan’s ribcage and laughs at the trail of goosebumps they leave in their wake. “So sensitive.”
“Are you complaining?” Wu Fan asks. The words come out almost like a challenge, and Wu Fan watches the smile on Junmyeon’s face become something a little more contemplative.
“Not complaining,” Junmyeon says, and then he digs his nails into Wu Fan’s flesh, drags down his ribcage and leaves four even red lines standing out against the skin. Wu Fan hisses and bites down on his lower lip, and Junmyeon’s expression is so self-satisfied it slides like molten gold along Wu Fan’s nerves. “This is part of your birthday present, too,” Junmyeon says, leaning up to bite at Wu Fan’s lower lip. “Do you want it, duizhang?”
Wu Fan is long past the point of denying the way that Junmyeon calling him duizhang turns him on more than just a little. Junmyeon is pressed closely enough against him that Wu Fan is pretty sure Junmyeon feels the way Wu Fan’s cock twitches, pressed between their bodies. “Evidently,” Wu Fan mutters, eyebrows drawing together in embarrassment. Some people blush; Wu Fan scowls. “What did you have planned?”
“If I tell you, it ruins all the fun.” Sliding a hand between them, Junmyeon wraps his fingers around the shape of Wu Fan’s growing erection and squeezes, gently, the pad of his finger pressing against the very tip of Wu Fan’s cock. “What do you say we go back to bed?”
“I’m game,” Wu Fan says.
Junmyeon walks him backwards toward the bedroom, and it’s a little humiliating and a lot arousing that he does it with his hand still pressed up between Wu Fan’s legs, curled around the girth of his dick. It’s hard to do anything other than exactly what Junmyeon wants, from that position, so Wu Fan walks carefully backwards and trusts Junmyeon not to run him into anything. The entire way, Junmyeon just smiles up at him, smiles like he isn’t leading Wu Fan around by the dick, like Wu Fan’s whole awareness isn’t totally focused on the slight movements of Junmyeon’s fingers.
When the backs of Wu Fan’s legs hit the edge of the bed, Junmyeon lets go of his cock and presses both hands against Wu Fan’s chest to push him back onto the mattress. This is the part Wu Fan likes the most: After the aggressive, controlling side of Junmyeon is has started to come out, but before Wu Fan is so strung out on denied orgasms that he starts to regret ever laying eyes on Kim Junmyeon to begin with. (The regret only lasts as long as it takes for Junmyeon to make Wu Fan come, but in Wu Fan’s defense, sometimes that takes hours.)
“I think I’m starting to get an idea what my birthday present is,” Wu Fan says, scooting back on the bed. He hadn’t made his sheets up before he left the room, and he almost wishes he had, except he knows that he’s going to have his hands twisted in the sheets so much that by the end it won’t have even mattered.
Junmyeon smiles, and crawls onto the bed, pressing one thigh down between Wu Fan’s and leaning over him. They’re close enough to kiss, but Junmyeon doesn’t, instead letting his fingertips wander along the plane of Wu Fan’s chest—tracing the lines of his collarbones, counting his ribs, pinching almost idly at Wu Fan’s right nipple. “Are you?” he asks, enigmatic.
Wu Fan kind of wants to smack him, but he also wants Junmyeon to fuck him, so he holds back from that impulse.
Even though between the two of them, Wu Fan is wearing much less clothing, Junmyeon still gets him naked first. He takes an annoyingly long time, too, fingers catching and pulling at the waistband of Wu Fan’s boxer-briefs, pulling the fabric down over Wu Fan’s thighs—he’s a tease, that’s what he is. Junmyeon is the worst kind of tease, because he has to know that Wu Fan is turned on enough for each sensation to be magnified, and the drag of cotton on his skin is almost unbearable.
“You’re the worst, you know,” Wu Fan points out in Mandarin.
Junmyeon doesn’t even bother replying, just arches an eyebrow and tosses the boxers over the edge of the bed. “Spread your legs,” he says, and Wu Fan is almost ashamed to admit he does, so easily it’s almost thoughtless. Junmyeon settles between his legs and presses his palms against the soft skin of the insides of Wu Fan’s thighs, pressing them open a little wider. “You’re so hard,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet Wu Fan’s gaze. “And I haven’t even really touched you yet.”
Sometimes Junmyeon likes doing this—drawing attention to things that embarrass Wu Fan, just so he can watch the way Wu Fan’s eyebrows draw together and, if he’s lucky, the way he blushes. It takes a lot to make Wu Fan blush, and by this point Wu Fan likes to think he’s pretty good at suppressing the reaction, but this—pointing out how obviously aroused Wu Fan is, while Junmyeon is still wearing all of his clothes—is enough to have Wu Fan’s face reddening a little. He looks away.
“Hey, now,” Junmyeon says. One hand slips higher, thumb tracing the crease where Wu Fan’s thigh joins his hip. “Look at me.”
Wu Fan looks back, and Junmyeon smiles—half a smirk, still, but mostly open, because even like this Junmyeon isn’t a jerk. He just doesn’t have it in him to be cruel, or at least, not verbally cruel, and even when he’s brutal with Wu Fan’s body Junmyeon makes sure to soothe it with plenty of kind words and gentle touches as salve. Junmen, indeed.
Junmyeon reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt and comes out with a bottle of lube, half-empty. “I told you I had an idea,” Wu Fan says, tucking one hand under his head. The other hand traces idle patterns on his abs, just north of his bellybutton, because Junmyeon isn’t touching him nearly enough and Wu Fan needs some kind of sensation right now. “Are you going to finger me until I cry? Because you know that was a one-time deal—”
“I wasn’t going to aim for tears this time,” Junmyeon says with a laugh that’s half real amusement and half filthy promise. “But I could, if you want me to—?”
“Pass,” Wu Fan says roughly, shaking his head.
What he remembers is that that had been humiliating, Junmyeon three fingers deep and stroking over Wu Fan’s prostate with a deliberate slowness that had made Wu Fan’s thighs shake, made him beg, literally, to come. He remembers the slow curve of Junmyeon’s smile against the inside of his thigh, and the way Junmyeon had forbidden him from touching himself, wanting to see Wu Fan get off on Junmyeon’s fingers alone. Wu Fan had felt exposed, open, every part of him laid bare for Junmyeon to see—and he’d been embarrassed by his own desperation, by the way his voice cracked as he choked on Junmyeon’s name.
What Wu Fan tries hard not to remember is that when Junmyeon had finally let him come, he’d fingered Wu Fan hard and fast until Wu Fan couldn’t even scream, his entire body going tense as a piano wire before he came with a moan that was more a sob than anything else. His orgasm had lasted forever, left him bone-deep exhausted and satisfied beyond words, and when Wu Fan had regained his mind he’d realized that there were tear-tracks on his cheeks. That had probably, Wu Fan tries not to think, been the best orgasm of his life.
In the here and now, Junmyeon sets the lube on Wu Fan’s stomach and leans down to press his mouth against the inside of Wu Fan’s thigh. He sucks at the skin there until Wu Fan knows there’s a red mark standing out against the skin—something no one else will ever see, like Junmyeon is privately claiming him. The thought makes Wu Fan a little harder, makes the arousal in his stomach pulse a little hotter.
“Then I guess it’s good I had something else in mind,” Junmyeon says, his fingers curling around Wu Fan’s cock. He presses the pad of his pointer finger against the exposed tip, rubbing in circles and smearing precome—the sensation is sharp, intense, and Wu Fan can’t help the way his stomach muscles tense in response. Junmyeon notices—he always notices—and laughs, leaning down to flick his tongue against the slit. “You’re always so sensitive,” he says again. “So sensitive, duizhang.”
“Not my fault,” Wu Fan says. He’s proud that his voice only shakes a little.
It hadn’t taken Junmyeon long at all to figure out that Wu Fan’s uncut cock was, overall, way more sensitive than Junmyeon’s—and that made him easy, made him fall apart much faster under Junmyeon’s hands and mouth. And Junmyeon had been absolutely insufferable about making use of that fact as much as possible, pushing Wu Fan as close to the brink of orgasm as he could manage without letting him come, timing himself and trying to break his own records in getting Wu Fan off.
Wu Fan definitely hadn’t enjoyed any of it, no sir, no how. Definitely not.
He does, however, enjoy it when Junmyeon thumbs at the head of his cock, pushing the foreskin back just enough to get at the sensitive ridge. Already, Wu Fan can tell that this is going to be agonizing, that Junmyeon is going to push the very limits of Wu Fan’s self-control. The idea makes him shudder, and Junmyeon looks up from where he’s been perusing the head of Wu Fan’s cock with his tongue.
“Mm?” he says.
“Nothing,” Wu Fan replies. He curls his fingers in his own hair, wraps the other hand around Junmyeon’s bottle of lube. “Keep going.”
They both know that Wu Fan isn’t really in a position to be giving orders, but Junmyeon doesn’t say anything, just pulls the foreskin back further so he can flick his tongue against the frenulum. It’s intense, makes Wu Fan’s whole body jolt, and the noise that Junmyeon makes around his cock can’t be anything other than sadistic amusement. “You are definitely the worst,” Wu Fan says, again in Mandarin, and Junmyeon looks up and, very calmly, lets his teeth catch on the crown of Wu Fan’s dick.
If Wu Fan thought that the tongue against his frenulum was intense, that has nothing on the sensation of Junmyeon’s teeth against it. He’s not entirely sure what he says—some combination of swearwords and Junmyeon’s name and garbled phrases in no intelligible language, and Wu Fan’s hands are both in his hair now, tangled there, pulling hard. He has to ground himself against the spike of sensation, which shoots straight through his nerves and makes him shudder—it hurts, but it’s a good hurt, the kind of hurt that Junmyeon likes to make him beg for.
Suddenly Wu Fan is thinking that he might have no idea what’s in store today, after all.
“Hands and knees,” Junmyeon says, pulling back from between Wu Fan’s thighs.
It takes a second for the words to process as Korean through Wu Fan’s brain. He obeys, slowly, pushing himself up onto his hands and flipping himself over—Junmyeon likes to get him in positions Wu Fan hates, likes to make him totally exposed, so that anyone who walked through the door would know exactly what was happening. No one ever has, and they’re always careful enough that no one ever will, but the threat is there, and that’s what has Wu Fan’s cock throbbing as he drops down onto his forearms, leaving his ass in the air for Junmyeon to work with.
“Lube,” Junmyeon adds, and Wu Fan reaches back to hand it over.
Wu Fan never knows quite what to expect when they’re like this. Junmyeon is unpredictable, and that’s something Wu Fan both loves and loathes about him. Half the time Junmyeon takes him by surprise, two fingers from the get-go, unrelenting, and the other half he just makes Wu Fan wait, lets him get tenser with every passing second before giving him one finger easy as anything and building him up until he can’t take it anymore. So with his face in the pillow and Junmyeon sitting behind him, out of sight, Wu Fan has no idea what’s coming and no idea how to prepare.
The cold slickness of lube dripping down over his entrance makes Wu Fan jump, and he can feel goosebumps prickling over his skin at the sensation. Junmyeon chuckles and drags his fingers up through the excess, from just behind Wu Fan’s balls to his entrance, and gives him one finger, pressing in deep and staying there, perfectly still.
“Agh,” is about the only thing Wu Fan can manage, muscles clenching around Junmyeon’s finger. It’s not too much—actually, it’s less than he’s used to taking from Junmyeon, and gentler to boot. But there’s something about the way Junmyeon holds it, his finger pressed deep and unmoving inside Wu Fan’s body, that makes him shudder, makes him wonder what exactly Junmyeon has up his sleeve. “What are you doing?” he asks, half-pants, twisting his head a little to see if he can get a glimpse of Junmyeon.
“Uh-uh,” Junmyeon says, patting Wu Fan’s ass. “No peeking.”
“Asshole,” Wu Fan says, but there’s no fire in it. Now that his body is adjusting to the strangely still presence of Junmyeon’s finger, he can feel the stirrings of another more familiar feeling—the want for more, his body beginning to crave whatever it is that Junmyeon has planned to give him.
Honestly, Wu Fan never expected this, between him and Junmyeon. Junmyeon had always seemed too quiet, too soft-spoken and gentle, too leader, and Wu Fan had then—has always—wanted something bigger, rougher, something less polished that would fill the aching empty space left inside him by years of dislocation and disillusionment. But Junmyeon, for all that his smiles are angelic and his eyes are kind, is much more than the caricature of a leader that Wu Fan had once assumed him to be. (It had been stupid, Wu Fan thinks now, to ever think that he could categorize someone so simply.) The first time they had kissed, the first time that Junmyeon pushed him down to the mattress and frotted against him until they came in their pants, in a rush, like the horny teenagers they were—it was then that it had been apparent to him that, in Junmyeon, Wu Fan had finally found something to match the terrible loneliness inside him.
It feels like ages before Junmyeon moves his finger, pressing it down hard against the sensitive insides of Wu Fan and staying there. Wu Fan hisses, back arching, and Junmyeon laughs, his thumb rubbing maddening little circles against Wu Fan’s perineum. It’s barely enough pressure—just hard enough to be felt against his prostate, but not hard enough stimulate it. “You are the worst kind of tease,” Wu Fan says, in Korean this time, so Junmyeon understands him.
“Is that a challenge?” Junmyeon says, laughing. He presses his finger down a little harder, stretching Wu Fan open just a little bit more, and Wu Fan stifles his moan into the pillow in his arms.
“No,” he manages, but he knows the damage is done.
Junmyeon pulls his hand back, his finger slipping out of Wu Fan, and when it returns there are two fingers pressed slick and cool against his entrance. Wu Fan’s not quite sure he’s ready, but Junmyeon pushes them inside anyway, slow and steady but unrelenting until they’re pressed just as deep, just as motionless inside Wu Fan. “I should have kept my mouth shut,” Wu Fan says with a breathless, desperate laugh, screwing his eyes closed as his body tightens around Junmyeon’s fingers.
“Probably,” Junmyeon agrees cheerfully, curving his fingers down and pressing them right up against Wu Fan’s prostate. It’s an underhanded blow, and it has Wu Fan shaking, stifling choked moans into the pillow—Junmyeon doesn’t even move his fingers, just presses them up against Wu Fan’s prostate and leaves them there until Wu Fan is canting his hips back, trying to get a little more stimulation. When Junmyeon asks, “Ready to talk?” his voice is so insufferably calm that it has Wu Fan digging his nails into his palms.
“No,” he says, even though Wu Fan isn’t honestly sure whether that’s the truth. “Try harder.”
“If you insist,” Junmyeon says, and presses a kiss against the dimples at the base of Wu Fan’s spine as he presses his fingers down. One finger was intense enough, but two fingers makes Wu Fan squirm, a noise uncomfortably like a whimper catching and sticking in the back of his throat. He refuses to let Junmyeon hear that noise—Wu Fan still has enough dignity left for that, at least. So he endures it, although he can’t stop his hips from moving in tiny little jerks, pressing back against Junmyeon’s hand like maybe that’ll get him some of the stimulation his body is so desperately craving.
It completely takes him by surprise when Junmyeon starts to move his fingers, especially because there’s no buildup—Junmyeon just draws his fingers out and thrusts them back in, hard, his knuckles making Wu Fan’s whole body jolt when they make contact with the tight ring of muscle at his entrance. Junmyeon gives absolutely no quarter, angling his fingers perfectly so the tips hit Wu Fan’s prostate on every pass, and it has Wu Fan’s thighs shaking, his face hidden in the pillow as he makes an embarrassing series of half-gasp, half-moan sounds.
“Junmyeon,” he chokes, the last syllable ending on more of a whine than a consonant, “please, please, oh—fuck, please, I’m gonna come—”
Those are the magic words, it seems. Junmyeon pulls his fingers back one last time and they’re gone, leaving Wu Fan aching and empty and unsatisfied. The haze of orgasm recedes, crawling back down his spine, and his erection throbs uncomfortably, too much blood pooled between his legs and not enough going to his brain. “I hate you so much,” Wu Fan enunciates in clear, crisp Korean, and stifles a frustrated groan at the way Junmyeon laughs behind him.
“You should have known,” Junmyeon says, patting Wu Fan sportingly on the hip. “When you said I was the worst kind of tease, you should have known I’d live up to that reputation.” There’s the click of a bottle cap, and then more lube dripping down Wu Fan’s ass. Junmyeon catches it, the same as before, and presses three fingers into Wu Fan without ceremony.
“Holy shit,” Wu Fan says in English, his entire body tensing around the suddenness of the intrusion. Junmyeon presses his fingers deep, the tips brushing over Wu Fan’s prostate, and Wu Fan can’t decide whether he wants to press into that pleasure or pull away from the incessant stretch and burn of three fingers inside him. “Oh, holy shit, Junmyeon.”
“That sounds promising,” Junmyeon says. Wu Fan knows what Junmyeon wants—he wants to hear Wu Fan begging, wants to hear him desperate and incoherent. Wu Fan also knows that, in all likelihood, Junmyeon will probably get what he wants, but that doesn’t mean that Wu Fan won’t hold out as long as he possibly can before giving in. “You’re enduring better than I thought you would.”
Junmyeon sounds impressed, and that makes Wu Fan weirdly proud, which he doesn’t really want to think about. Instead he just rolls his shoulders, trying to adjust to the incessant pressure inside him, and exhales shakily. “I’m trying,” he says, which sounds almost like an admission.
For a moment, Junmyeon is quiet, his fingers stroking over Wu Fan’s prostate in tiny little movements that drive Wu Fan crazy. After a moment, Junmyeon sighs. “It’s your birthday,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t be too mean to you.”
Wu Fan isn’t sure exactly what that means, but he figures anything has to be better than being face down, ass up with Junmyeon three fingers deep and refusing to move.
Junmyeon pulls his fingers out slowly, letting the tips catch against the tight ring of muscle and tug a little, an intense sensation that makes Wu Fan jolt before it’s gone. Even considering the burn of being stretched, Wu Fan still feels oddly empty without Junmyeon’s fingers inside him, his body craving something to fill that empty space. Just like what had drawn him to Junmyeon in the first place, isn’t it? That craving, and the way it seemed only Junmyeon could satisfy it.
Wu Fan is so caught in his own thoughts that he almost misses the rustle of Junmyeon undressing, and definitely misses the click of the lube bottle, but there’s no way he could miss the blunt tip of Junmyeon’s cock lining up against his entrance. He’s ready—he’s so ready he can taste it, hot on the back of his tongue, and Wu Fan presses his hips back towards Junmyeon’s with the expectation that Junmyeon will fuck him like he normally does. Unrelenting, wanting.
Wu Fan is wrong, of course. Junmyeon isn’t the type of person Wu Fan can predict.
Junmyeon pushes inside slowly, excruciatingly slowly, until just the head of his cock is inside. The pressure is intense, sharp and forcing Wu Fan open, and he clenches his fingers in the sheets and tugs, needing something to anchor himself in. “Oh god,” Wu Fan groans, his voice sounding raw even in his own ears. “Junmyeon—”
“Ready to talk yet?” Junmyeon asks. If nothing else, at least he doesn’t sound composed anymore—his breath is coming a little faster, and his fingers, where they rest on Wu Fan’s hips, keep tightening erratically against his skin. Wu Fan takes a breath and tightens his muscles, then hisses at the spike of pain that still makes his cock twitch. For the first time, Wu Fan becomes acutely aware of the fact that Junmyeon hasn’t touched him, not once, and Wu Fan is so hard it actually aches, persistent and throbbing—all the extra blood in his body, it seems, is in his dick right now, and Wu Fan can imagine how it looks against his stomach right now, thick and dark.
Wu Fan prides himself on being a very composed person. They made him EXO M’s leader because he can keep himself cool in almost any circumstances. But Wu Fan is not superhuman, and he’s had Junmyeon’s fingers inside him for the better part of an hour, and his self-control is stretched taut, a rubber band about to snap under the pressure.
Junmyeon pushes forward another millimeter, and Wu Fan’s control is destroyed.
“Please,” he gasps, exhales with a full-body shudder. “Please, Junmyeon, I need—I need you, I need you to fuck me right now,” and for a minute Wu Fan isn’t sure what language he’s even speaking, but Junmyeon’s fingers tighten on his hips and so he thinks he must have gotten the message across. “Please fuck me, please, please, I need you inside me, I need you deep, I can’t—I can’t stand this, please, Jesus Christ, Junmyeon—!”
“Good boy,” Junmyeon says, and thrusts forward in one smooth motion. Wu Fan almost sobs, the pressure both too much and exactly what he needed, and he thinks he’s probably tearing holes in his sheets, that’s how hard he’s holding on. Junmyeon fucks him in long, unrelenting strokes, pushing deep, his fingers so tight on Wu Fan’s hips he thinks there might be bruises there afterwards. He feels like he’s being filled entirely, too full, so full he could explode and yet he still wants more—Wu Fan’s body is selfish, desperate for every one of Junmyeon’s touches, every single thrust of Junmyeon’s cock inside him.
Wu Fan pants nonsense, Junmyeon’s name and curses and pleas all wrapped up in some kind of language mixture that even he can’t make sense of. But it doesn’t matter, really, because at least Junmyeon is finally fucking him.
When Wu Fan’s thighs start shaking so badly that he’s not sure he’ll be able to stay up anymore, Junmyeon slows down, pressing deep and stilling before he wraps his arm around Wu Fan’s middle. “Come on,” he says, hauling Wu Fan upright—the change in angle lets Junmyeon sink just a little deeper, and they both moan, Wu Fan trembling with the onslaught. “Think you can stay like this, duizhang?” Junmyeon asks, his hand pressing flat against Wu Fan’s lower belly like he wants to feel his cock move inside Wu Fan’s body.
Wu Fan exhales shakily. “Just move,” he demands, reaching up to push some hair off his forehead. His ponytail is a mess now, unsurprisingly, and the tendrils keep sticking to Wu Fan’s sweaty face and neck—he’s drenched, he knows he is, but he doesn’t care, because it makes the slide of his skin against Junmyeon’s that much smoother.
Physically, the size difference between them is huge, but Junmyeon has strength and force of will that has nothing to do with stature. He has it in him to hold Wu Fan down and make him feel, and he has no problem doing just that.
Junmyeon braces himself and moves, and the first thrust puts his cock right up against Wu Fan’s prostate. Wu Fan can’t help it—he shouts, reaching back to dig his fingernails into Junmyeon’s thigh, his hips rocking to meet every one of Junmyeon’s upward thrusts. The new angle means that Junmyeon hits his prostate not on every thrust, but close to it, and it doesn’t take long before Wu Fan’s head is nothing more than a white haze of impending orgasm.
“Please,” Wu Fan manages, his voice raw. “Touch me—please, ah—”
Junmyeon laughs, the sound low and totally destroyed, half-muffled against Wu Fan’s shoulderblade. “No,” he says, and the word sends a spark of heat through Wu Fan’s nerves, makes arousal pool hot in the pit of his stomach, pushing him another inch higher. “I want you to come from this alone. No touching.”
No touching. Wu Fan can do no touching. It isn’t the first time that Junmyeon has made him get off hands-free.
Pressing his hips back to meet Junmyeon’s, Wu Fan focuses—as best he can, anyway—and adjusts, until Junmyeon’s cock is hitting his prostate dead-on with each thrust and Wu Fan can’t hear over the buzzing in his head, the incessant, unforgiving need to come. “Junmyeon,” he gasps, his voice giving out halfway through the word, “I’m gonna—ah, fuck, please—”
“Come, duizhang,” Junmyeon says, and Wu Fan does.
He has a brief moment, right before he comes, where Wu Fan is almost embarrassed that the last word out of his mouth was a plea. But then he’s coming, hard, on his own stomach and thighs and on Junmyeon’s thighs, on the sheets, it seems like everywhere except that Wu Fan is so fucked out, so blissed that he can’t even bring himself to give a single shit. Junmyeon is still fucking him, and Wu Fan is whimpering, fuck, he’s not even ashamed, whimpering on every thrust, until Junmyeon finally bites down on the back of Wu Fan’s shoulder and comes with a shudder and a low, desperate groan.
Wu Fan has no idea how long it takes for him to come back to his senses, but when he does, he’s stretched out on the bed and his sheet is on the floor. He’s also remarkably semen-free, as is Junmyeon, who’s stretched out next to him and tracing patterns on the surface of Wu Fan’s stomach. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Junmyeon says with a smile, and Wu Fan shivers at the tendrils of pleasure still trailing lazily through his nervous system. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’m really lucky I don’t have to dance tomorrow,” Wu Fan says, wincing when his voice comes out raw and sore. He feels exhausted, like all his limbs are weight down with lead, and he knows that tomorrow—or whatever, whenever he next wakes up—is going to hit him like a ton of bricks.
Still, Wu Fan can’t find it in himself to regret a moment.
“Happy birthday,” Junmyeon says, leaning down to press a kiss against Wu Fan’s mouth. It’s soft again, gentle, a counterpoint to the way Junmyeon had been handling Wu Fan only minutes—hours? Who knows—ago, but Wu Fan likes it, and he brings one hand up to cup Junmyeon’s jaw and pull him close for another.
When they part, Junmyeon hums and curls into Wu Fan’s side. Wu Fan lets his fingers fall to Junmyeon’s hair, threading through dark strands. “Can we do this for half-birthdays, too?” he asks aloud, looking up at the ceiling. “And quarter-birthdays? And like, every month on the day that would be my birthday if it were November?”
The laugh Junmyeon gives is surprised, but pleased, and it settles nicely inside Wu Fan’s ribcage. “Yeah,” he agrees, his breath warm on Wu Fan’s skin. “Yeah, I could live with that.”
--------------------
AUTHOR'S NOTES: UM I GUESS I ACCIDENTALLY—?! this is literally all konnie's fault and i can't even. konnie i hope you are happy with yourself and/or i hope you forgive me if this sucks please don't kill me aiight yeah. I DID NOT REALLY WRITE THIS FIC WITH "BIRTHDAY SEX" AS MY THEME SONG I PROMISE...
on the bright side this fic made me at least one friend so i guess it's not all bad?!
the prompt that started it all: "what if suho makes kris beg for the d for his birthday"
look at me, come into my arms, don't worry about anything for today.
drenched under the lights is this
town town town town
coming to me is
you you you you
tour small lips,
your moist hair
i'm falling in love
we're just dancing on the floor
i keep falling for you
we're just dancing in the rain
your eyes that look at me
are so hot
b.a.p, "dancing in the rain"
ALREADY I'M READY
kris/suho
Wu Fan wakes up and finds the dorm suspiciously silent.
On any ordinary non-schedule day, the soundtrack to Wu Fan’s morning routine is comprised of, at the very least, Jongdae’s shower vocal warmups and the clatter of Yixing’s pots and pans in the kitchen. Occasionally, he’s also treated to Tao’s shower renditions of Big Bang songs and Minseok’s soft but endlessly beleaguered chiding as people drop clothes and on the floor and leaves plates on the table. (Wu Fan is thankful that Lu Han, at least, is quiet, even if that quiet usually means he’s planning something.) The M dorm is not the calmest of places, especially in the mornings, and especially when everyone is looking forward to a day of not having to do anything in particular.
Today, though, Wu Fan wakes up and hears nothing. No one is singing or cooking or cleaning or laughing. It’s quiet, uninterrupted except by the noise of traffic outside Wu Fan’s closed window. Wu Fan stretches out in bed and props his hands under his head, wondering sleepily what time it is (and then wondering if it even matters).
It’s nice, kind of. The absence of any kind of pressure, no alarm clock, no members who need Wu Fan to do anything. Weird, but nice, that the only thing that forces Wu Fan out of bed is his own stomach’s need for food.
He wanders into the kitchen in his boxers, yawning, his hair pulled up into a messy ponytail. Yixing makes fun of Wu Fan relentlessly for it, but if he’s home alone, Wu Fan wants to be comfortable, and that means keeping his slightly-too-long hair a decent distance from his eyes.
Wu Fan pulls the fridge open and finds tupperware—leftovers from the night before, and a note from Yixing that reads “Good morning, sleepyhead!” Wu Fan laughs and pulls the container out of the fridge, and he’s halfway through a bite, scratching idly at his stomach, before he spots Junmyeon sitting on the couch.
To his credit, Wu Fan manages not to choke on the bite of rice he’d just put in his mouth. “Junmyeon?” he says, the words muffled through the food. “How long have you been here?”
Junmyeon looks up and smiles, the kind of sweet, guileless smile that Wu Fan knows was the origin of the Junmen nickname. “I finished my errands and meetings early,” he says, lifting up his phone to show Wu Fan the screen (although from this distance, it’s too blurry to make out). “I came up afterwards. You know it’s like one in the afternoon, right?”
Wu Fan pauses, his mouth hanging open for a second before he remembers there’s still rice in there. He chews quickly and swallows, then asks, “I think my Korean failed me for a second. What time?”
“One-fourteen, to be exact,” Junmyeon says. He laughs and puts his phone down on the table. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”
There’s really, when Wu Fan thinks about it, no logical explanation for Junmyeon to be here right now. It is Kris’ birthday, that’s true, but if the other members had given him a lie-in and a quiet dorm as a gift, then what else did Junmyeon have planned? “Afternoon,” Wu Fan replies, carefully putting the lid back on the leftovers. “Not that I don’t like seeing your face, but what’s the occasion?”
Junmyeon stands up and stretches his arms over his head, and Wu Fan looks everywhere except the strip of pale skin exposed by the lifted hem of his t-shirt. “Your birthday, obviously,” Junmyeon says, hooking his thumbs into his pockets as he wanders into the kitchen to join Wu Fan. “Duizhang is turning another year older. Doesn’t that count as occasion enough?”
“That’s not it,” Wu Fan says. He tries his best to suppress a shiver at the way the Mandarin syllables sound on Junmyeon’s tongue, although Wu Fan is fairly sure that’s some kind of positive reinforcement thing that has nothing to do with the actual word.
“Then?” Junmyeon asks. He lifts his eyebrows. In the set of them Wu Fan can see suppressed amusement, and there’s something mischievous tucked into the corners of Junmyeon’s smile. Everyone thinks Junmyeon is an angel, and it’s true that he’s hardworking and selfless to a fault, but no one is that innocent. Least of all Junmyeon.
It’s just that things get dangerous when Wu Fan and Junmyeon are alone together, that’s all. Just that lately, Junmyeon keeps doing things to Wu Fan that Wu Fan doesn’t want to admit he likes.
“Nothing,” Wu Fan says. He meets Junmyeon’s gaze, almost defiant.
“Then there’s no problem,” Junmyeon says, reaching up to curl his fingers around the back of Wu Fan’s neck. “Right?”
Wu Fan isn’t sure he’d say there’s no problem. He’s pretty sure that the fact that he’s starting to get hard and they’ve barely even touched counts as a problem. But he’s also pretty sure it’s not a problem he wants to fix, so Wu Fan just shrugs a little and says, “No problem.”
Junmyeon kisses him then, using the hand at the back of his neck to pull Wu Fan down until their mouths collide. The first time is always gentle—soft, exploratory. Surprisingly sweet, or perhaps not surprisingly, considering—like a greeting, and kind of like an invitation. Junmyeon’s lips are soft and part easily under Wu Fan’s, giving him the chance to lead, although Wu Fan knows that won’t last long—sometimes Wu Fan thinks that Junmyeon’s favorite part of this is letting Wu Fan thinks he has control, and then taking it away. (That’s probably Wu Fan’s favorite part of this, too, if he has to be honest.)
For a couple long minutes, they do nothing but kiss, Wu Fan’s hands coming to rest on Junmyeon’s hips as Junmyeon presses closer. Junmyeon’s other hand rests just above the waistband of Wu Fan’s boxers, his thumb rubbing tiny soothing circles against the curve of Wu Fan’s hipbone—a kind of tiny possessive touch, almost innocent but still enough to have goosebumps rising on Wu Fan’s skin. He won’t admit it aloud, at least not in his right mind, but Wu Fan likes it when Junmyeon touches him like this, casual like Junmyeon has a right to his body.
Breaking the kiss with a smile, Junmyeon murmurs, “Always so sensitive, duizhang.” He drags his fingertips lightly up Wu Fan’s ribcage and laughs at the trail of goosebumps they leave in their wake. “So sensitive.”
“Are you complaining?” Wu Fan asks. The words come out almost like a challenge, and Wu Fan watches the smile on Junmyeon’s face become something a little more contemplative.
“Not complaining,” Junmyeon says, and then he digs his nails into Wu Fan’s flesh, drags down his ribcage and leaves four even red lines standing out against the skin. Wu Fan hisses and bites down on his lower lip, and Junmyeon’s expression is so self-satisfied it slides like molten gold along Wu Fan’s nerves. “This is part of your birthday present, too,” Junmyeon says, leaning up to bite at Wu Fan’s lower lip. “Do you want it, duizhang?”
Wu Fan is long past the point of denying the way that Junmyeon calling him duizhang turns him on more than just a little. Junmyeon is pressed closely enough against him that Wu Fan is pretty sure Junmyeon feels the way Wu Fan’s cock twitches, pressed between their bodies. “Evidently,” Wu Fan mutters, eyebrows drawing together in embarrassment. Some people blush; Wu Fan scowls. “What did you have planned?”
“If I tell you, it ruins all the fun.” Sliding a hand between them, Junmyeon wraps his fingers around the shape of Wu Fan’s growing erection and squeezes, gently, the pad of his finger pressing against the very tip of Wu Fan’s cock. “What do you say we go back to bed?”
“I’m game,” Wu Fan says.
Junmyeon walks him backwards toward the bedroom, and it’s a little humiliating and a lot arousing that he does it with his hand still pressed up between Wu Fan’s legs, curled around the girth of his dick. It’s hard to do anything other than exactly what Junmyeon wants, from that position, so Wu Fan walks carefully backwards and trusts Junmyeon not to run him into anything. The entire way, Junmyeon just smiles up at him, smiles like he isn’t leading Wu Fan around by the dick, like Wu Fan’s whole awareness isn’t totally focused on the slight movements of Junmyeon’s fingers.
When the backs of Wu Fan’s legs hit the edge of the bed, Junmyeon lets go of his cock and presses both hands against Wu Fan’s chest to push him back onto the mattress. This is the part Wu Fan likes the most: After the aggressive, controlling side of Junmyeon is has started to come out, but before Wu Fan is so strung out on denied orgasms that he starts to regret ever laying eyes on Kim Junmyeon to begin with. (The regret only lasts as long as it takes for Junmyeon to make Wu Fan come, but in Wu Fan’s defense, sometimes that takes hours.)
“I think I’m starting to get an idea what my birthday present is,” Wu Fan says, scooting back on the bed. He hadn’t made his sheets up before he left the room, and he almost wishes he had, except he knows that he’s going to have his hands twisted in the sheets so much that by the end it won’t have even mattered.
Junmyeon smiles, and crawls onto the bed, pressing one thigh down between Wu Fan’s and leaning over him. They’re close enough to kiss, but Junmyeon doesn’t, instead letting his fingertips wander along the plane of Wu Fan’s chest—tracing the lines of his collarbones, counting his ribs, pinching almost idly at Wu Fan’s right nipple. “Are you?” he asks, enigmatic.
Wu Fan kind of wants to smack him, but he also wants Junmyeon to fuck him, so he holds back from that impulse.
Even though between the two of them, Wu Fan is wearing much less clothing, Junmyeon still gets him naked first. He takes an annoyingly long time, too, fingers catching and pulling at the waistband of Wu Fan’s boxer-briefs, pulling the fabric down over Wu Fan’s thighs—he’s a tease, that’s what he is. Junmyeon is the worst kind of tease, because he has to know that Wu Fan is turned on enough for each sensation to be magnified, and the drag of cotton on his skin is almost unbearable.
“You’re the worst, you know,” Wu Fan points out in Mandarin.
Junmyeon doesn’t even bother replying, just arches an eyebrow and tosses the boxers over the edge of the bed. “Spread your legs,” he says, and Wu Fan is almost ashamed to admit he does, so easily it’s almost thoughtless. Junmyeon settles between his legs and presses his palms against the soft skin of the insides of Wu Fan’s thighs, pressing them open a little wider. “You’re so hard,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet Wu Fan’s gaze. “And I haven’t even really touched you yet.”
Sometimes Junmyeon likes doing this—drawing attention to things that embarrass Wu Fan, just so he can watch the way Wu Fan’s eyebrows draw together and, if he’s lucky, the way he blushes. It takes a lot to make Wu Fan blush, and by this point Wu Fan likes to think he’s pretty good at suppressing the reaction, but this—pointing out how obviously aroused Wu Fan is, while Junmyeon is still wearing all of his clothes—is enough to have Wu Fan’s face reddening a little. He looks away.
“Hey, now,” Junmyeon says. One hand slips higher, thumb tracing the crease where Wu Fan’s thigh joins his hip. “Look at me.”
Wu Fan looks back, and Junmyeon smiles—half a smirk, still, but mostly open, because even like this Junmyeon isn’t a jerk. He just doesn’t have it in him to be cruel, or at least, not verbally cruel, and even when he’s brutal with Wu Fan’s body Junmyeon makes sure to soothe it with plenty of kind words and gentle touches as salve. Junmen, indeed.
Junmyeon reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt and comes out with a bottle of lube, half-empty. “I told you I had an idea,” Wu Fan says, tucking one hand under his head. The other hand traces idle patterns on his abs, just north of his bellybutton, because Junmyeon isn’t touching him nearly enough and Wu Fan needs some kind of sensation right now. “Are you going to finger me until I cry? Because you know that was a one-time deal—”
“I wasn’t going to aim for tears this time,” Junmyeon says with a laugh that’s half real amusement and half filthy promise. “But I could, if you want me to—?”
“Pass,” Wu Fan says roughly, shaking his head.
What he remembers is that that had been humiliating, Junmyeon three fingers deep and stroking over Wu Fan’s prostate with a deliberate slowness that had made Wu Fan’s thighs shake, made him beg, literally, to come. He remembers the slow curve of Junmyeon’s smile against the inside of his thigh, and the way Junmyeon had forbidden him from touching himself, wanting to see Wu Fan get off on Junmyeon’s fingers alone. Wu Fan had felt exposed, open, every part of him laid bare for Junmyeon to see—and he’d been embarrassed by his own desperation, by the way his voice cracked as he choked on Junmyeon’s name.
What Wu Fan tries hard not to remember is that when Junmyeon had finally let him come, he’d fingered Wu Fan hard and fast until Wu Fan couldn’t even scream, his entire body going tense as a piano wire before he came with a moan that was more a sob than anything else. His orgasm had lasted forever, left him bone-deep exhausted and satisfied beyond words, and when Wu Fan had regained his mind he’d realized that there were tear-tracks on his cheeks. That had probably, Wu Fan tries not to think, been the best orgasm of his life.
In the here and now, Junmyeon sets the lube on Wu Fan’s stomach and leans down to press his mouth against the inside of Wu Fan’s thigh. He sucks at the skin there until Wu Fan knows there’s a red mark standing out against the skin—something no one else will ever see, like Junmyeon is privately claiming him. The thought makes Wu Fan a little harder, makes the arousal in his stomach pulse a little hotter.
“Then I guess it’s good I had something else in mind,” Junmyeon says, his fingers curling around Wu Fan’s cock. He presses the pad of his pointer finger against the exposed tip, rubbing in circles and smearing precome—the sensation is sharp, intense, and Wu Fan can’t help the way his stomach muscles tense in response. Junmyeon notices—he always notices—and laughs, leaning down to flick his tongue against the slit. “You’re always so sensitive,” he says again. “So sensitive, duizhang.”
“Not my fault,” Wu Fan says. He’s proud that his voice only shakes a little.
It hadn’t taken Junmyeon long at all to figure out that Wu Fan’s uncut cock was, overall, way more sensitive than Junmyeon’s—and that made him easy, made him fall apart much faster under Junmyeon’s hands and mouth. And Junmyeon had been absolutely insufferable about making use of that fact as much as possible, pushing Wu Fan as close to the brink of orgasm as he could manage without letting him come, timing himself and trying to break his own records in getting Wu Fan off.
Wu Fan definitely hadn’t enjoyed any of it, no sir, no how. Definitely not.
He does, however, enjoy it when Junmyeon thumbs at the head of his cock, pushing the foreskin back just enough to get at the sensitive ridge. Already, Wu Fan can tell that this is going to be agonizing, that Junmyeon is going to push the very limits of Wu Fan’s self-control. The idea makes him shudder, and Junmyeon looks up from where he’s been perusing the head of Wu Fan’s cock with his tongue.
“Mm?” he says.
“Nothing,” Wu Fan replies. He curls his fingers in his own hair, wraps the other hand around Junmyeon’s bottle of lube. “Keep going.”
They both know that Wu Fan isn’t really in a position to be giving orders, but Junmyeon doesn’t say anything, just pulls the foreskin back further so he can flick his tongue against the frenulum. It’s intense, makes Wu Fan’s whole body jolt, and the noise that Junmyeon makes around his cock can’t be anything other than sadistic amusement. “You are definitely the worst,” Wu Fan says, again in Mandarin, and Junmyeon looks up and, very calmly, lets his teeth catch on the crown of Wu Fan’s dick.
If Wu Fan thought that the tongue against his frenulum was intense, that has nothing on the sensation of Junmyeon’s teeth against it. He’s not entirely sure what he says—some combination of swearwords and Junmyeon’s name and garbled phrases in no intelligible language, and Wu Fan’s hands are both in his hair now, tangled there, pulling hard. He has to ground himself against the spike of sensation, which shoots straight through his nerves and makes him shudder—it hurts, but it’s a good hurt, the kind of hurt that Junmyeon likes to make him beg for.
Suddenly Wu Fan is thinking that he might have no idea what’s in store today, after all.
“Hands and knees,” Junmyeon says, pulling back from between Wu Fan’s thighs.
It takes a second for the words to process as Korean through Wu Fan’s brain. He obeys, slowly, pushing himself up onto his hands and flipping himself over—Junmyeon likes to get him in positions Wu Fan hates, likes to make him totally exposed, so that anyone who walked through the door would know exactly what was happening. No one ever has, and they’re always careful enough that no one ever will, but the threat is there, and that’s what has Wu Fan’s cock throbbing as he drops down onto his forearms, leaving his ass in the air for Junmyeon to work with.
“Lube,” Junmyeon adds, and Wu Fan reaches back to hand it over.
Wu Fan never knows quite what to expect when they’re like this. Junmyeon is unpredictable, and that’s something Wu Fan both loves and loathes about him. Half the time Junmyeon takes him by surprise, two fingers from the get-go, unrelenting, and the other half he just makes Wu Fan wait, lets him get tenser with every passing second before giving him one finger easy as anything and building him up until he can’t take it anymore. So with his face in the pillow and Junmyeon sitting behind him, out of sight, Wu Fan has no idea what’s coming and no idea how to prepare.
The cold slickness of lube dripping down over his entrance makes Wu Fan jump, and he can feel goosebumps prickling over his skin at the sensation. Junmyeon chuckles and drags his fingers up through the excess, from just behind Wu Fan’s balls to his entrance, and gives him one finger, pressing in deep and staying there, perfectly still.
“Agh,” is about the only thing Wu Fan can manage, muscles clenching around Junmyeon’s finger. It’s not too much—actually, it’s less than he’s used to taking from Junmyeon, and gentler to boot. But there’s something about the way Junmyeon holds it, his finger pressed deep and unmoving inside Wu Fan’s body, that makes him shudder, makes him wonder what exactly Junmyeon has up his sleeve. “What are you doing?” he asks, half-pants, twisting his head a little to see if he can get a glimpse of Junmyeon.
“Uh-uh,” Junmyeon says, patting Wu Fan’s ass. “No peeking.”
“Asshole,” Wu Fan says, but there’s no fire in it. Now that his body is adjusting to the strangely still presence of Junmyeon’s finger, he can feel the stirrings of another more familiar feeling—the want for more, his body beginning to crave whatever it is that Junmyeon has planned to give him.
Honestly, Wu Fan never expected this, between him and Junmyeon. Junmyeon had always seemed too quiet, too soft-spoken and gentle, too leader, and Wu Fan had then—has always—wanted something bigger, rougher, something less polished that would fill the aching empty space left inside him by years of dislocation and disillusionment. But Junmyeon, for all that his smiles are angelic and his eyes are kind, is much more than the caricature of a leader that Wu Fan had once assumed him to be. (It had been stupid, Wu Fan thinks now, to ever think that he could categorize someone so simply.) The first time they had kissed, the first time that Junmyeon pushed him down to the mattress and frotted against him until they came in their pants, in a rush, like the horny teenagers they were—it was then that it had been apparent to him that, in Junmyeon, Wu Fan had finally found something to match the terrible loneliness inside him.
It feels like ages before Junmyeon moves his finger, pressing it down hard against the sensitive insides of Wu Fan and staying there. Wu Fan hisses, back arching, and Junmyeon laughs, his thumb rubbing maddening little circles against Wu Fan’s perineum. It’s barely enough pressure—just hard enough to be felt against his prostate, but not hard enough stimulate it. “You are the worst kind of tease,” Wu Fan says, in Korean this time, so Junmyeon understands him.
“Is that a challenge?” Junmyeon says, laughing. He presses his finger down a little harder, stretching Wu Fan open just a little bit more, and Wu Fan stifles his moan into the pillow in his arms.
“No,” he manages, but he knows the damage is done.
Junmyeon pulls his hand back, his finger slipping out of Wu Fan, and when it returns there are two fingers pressed slick and cool against his entrance. Wu Fan’s not quite sure he’s ready, but Junmyeon pushes them inside anyway, slow and steady but unrelenting until they’re pressed just as deep, just as motionless inside Wu Fan. “I should have kept my mouth shut,” Wu Fan says with a breathless, desperate laugh, screwing his eyes closed as his body tightens around Junmyeon’s fingers.
“Probably,” Junmyeon agrees cheerfully, curving his fingers down and pressing them right up against Wu Fan’s prostate. It’s an underhanded blow, and it has Wu Fan shaking, stifling choked moans into the pillow—Junmyeon doesn’t even move his fingers, just presses them up against Wu Fan’s prostate and leaves them there until Wu Fan is canting his hips back, trying to get a little more stimulation. When Junmyeon asks, “Ready to talk?” his voice is so insufferably calm that it has Wu Fan digging his nails into his palms.
“No,” he says, even though Wu Fan isn’t honestly sure whether that’s the truth. “Try harder.”
“If you insist,” Junmyeon says, and presses a kiss against the dimples at the base of Wu Fan’s spine as he presses his fingers down. One finger was intense enough, but two fingers makes Wu Fan squirm, a noise uncomfortably like a whimper catching and sticking in the back of his throat. He refuses to let Junmyeon hear that noise—Wu Fan still has enough dignity left for that, at least. So he endures it, although he can’t stop his hips from moving in tiny little jerks, pressing back against Junmyeon’s hand like maybe that’ll get him some of the stimulation his body is so desperately craving.
It completely takes him by surprise when Junmyeon starts to move his fingers, especially because there’s no buildup—Junmyeon just draws his fingers out and thrusts them back in, hard, his knuckles making Wu Fan’s whole body jolt when they make contact with the tight ring of muscle at his entrance. Junmyeon gives absolutely no quarter, angling his fingers perfectly so the tips hit Wu Fan’s prostate on every pass, and it has Wu Fan’s thighs shaking, his face hidden in the pillow as he makes an embarrassing series of half-gasp, half-moan sounds.
“Junmyeon,” he chokes, the last syllable ending on more of a whine than a consonant, “please, please, oh—fuck, please, I’m gonna come—”
Those are the magic words, it seems. Junmyeon pulls his fingers back one last time and they’re gone, leaving Wu Fan aching and empty and unsatisfied. The haze of orgasm recedes, crawling back down his spine, and his erection throbs uncomfortably, too much blood pooled between his legs and not enough going to his brain. “I hate you so much,” Wu Fan enunciates in clear, crisp Korean, and stifles a frustrated groan at the way Junmyeon laughs behind him.
“You should have known,” Junmyeon says, patting Wu Fan sportingly on the hip. “When you said I was the worst kind of tease, you should have known I’d live up to that reputation.” There’s the click of a bottle cap, and then more lube dripping down Wu Fan’s ass. Junmyeon catches it, the same as before, and presses three fingers into Wu Fan without ceremony.
“Holy shit,” Wu Fan says in English, his entire body tensing around the suddenness of the intrusion. Junmyeon presses his fingers deep, the tips brushing over Wu Fan’s prostate, and Wu Fan can’t decide whether he wants to press into that pleasure or pull away from the incessant stretch and burn of three fingers inside him. “Oh, holy shit, Junmyeon.”
“That sounds promising,” Junmyeon says. Wu Fan knows what Junmyeon wants—he wants to hear Wu Fan begging, wants to hear him desperate and incoherent. Wu Fan also knows that, in all likelihood, Junmyeon will probably get what he wants, but that doesn’t mean that Wu Fan won’t hold out as long as he possibly can before giving in. “You’re enduring better than I thought you would.”
Junmyeon sounds impressed, and that makes Wu Fan weirdly proud, which he doesn’t really want to think about. Instead he just rolls his shoulders, trying to adjust to the incessant pressure inside him, and exhales shakily. “I’m trying,” he says, which sounds almost like an admission.
For a moment, Junmyeon is quiet, his fingers stroking over Wu Fan’s prostate in tiny little movements that drive Wu Fan crazy. After a moment, Junmyeon sighs. “It’s your birthday,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t be too mean to you.”
Wu Fan isn’t sure exactly what that means, but he figures anything has to be better than being face down, ass up with Junmyeon three fingers deep and refusing to move.
Junmyeon pulls his fingers out slowly, letting the tips catch against the tight ring of muscle and tug a little, an intense sensation that makes Wu Fan jolt before it’s gone. Even considering the burn of being stretched, Wu Fan still feels oddly empty without Junmyeon’s fingers inside him, his body craving something to fill that empty space. Just like what had drawn him to Junmyeon in the first place, isn’t it? That craving, and the way it seemed only Junmyeon could satisfy it.
Wu Fan is so caught in his own thoughts that he almost misses the rustle of Junmyeon undressing, and definitely misses the click of the lube bottle, but there’s no way he could miss the blunt tip of Junmyeon’s cock lining up against his entrance. He’s ready—he’s so ready he can taste it, hot on the back of his tongue, and Wu Fan presses his hips back towards Junmyeon’s with the expectation that Junmyeon will fuck him like he normally does. Unrelenting, wanting.
Wu Fan is wrong, of course. Junmyeon isn’t the type of person Wu Fan can predict.
Junmyeon pushes inside slowly, excruciatingly slowly, until just the head of his cock is inside. The pressure is intense, sharp and forcing Wu Fan open, and he clenches his fingers in the sheets and tugs, needing something to anchor himself in. “Oh god,” Wu Fan groans, his voice sounding raw even in his own ears. “Junmyeon—”
“Ready to talk yet?” Junmyeon asks. If nothing else, at least he doesn’t sound composed anymore—his breath is coming a little faster, and his fingers, where they rest on Wu Fan’s hips, keep tightening erratically against his skin. Wu Fan takes a breath and tightens his muscles, then hisses at the spike of pain that still makes his cock twitch. For the first time, Wu Fan becomes acutely aware of the fact that Junmyeon hasn’t touched him, not once, and Wu Fan is so hard it actually aches, persistent and throbbing—all the extra blood in his body, it seems, is in his dick right now, and Wu Fan can imagine how it looks against his stomach right now, thick and dark.
Wu Fan prides himself on being a very composed person. They made him EXO M’s leader because he can keep himself cool in almost any circumstances. But Wu Fan is not superhuman, and he’s had Junmyeon’s fingers inside him for the better part of an hour, and his self-control is stretched taut, a rubber band about to snap under the pressure.
Junmyeon pushes forward another millimeter, and Wu Fan’s control is destroyed.
“Please,” he gasps, exhales with a full-body shudder. “Please, Junmyeon, I need—I need you, I need you to fuck me right now,” and for a minute Wu Fan isn’t sure what language he’s even speaking, but Junmyeon’s fingers tighten on his hips and so he thinks he must have gotten the message across. “Please fuck me, please, please, I need you inside me, I need you deep, I can’t—I can’t stand this, please, Jesus Christ, Junmyeon—!”
“Good boy,” Junmyeon says, and thrusts forward in one smooth motion. Wu Fan almost sobs, the pressure both too much and exactly what he needed, and he thinks he’s probably tearing holes in his sheets, that’s how hard he’s holding on. Junmyeon fucks him in long, unrelenting strokes, pushing deep, his fingers so tight on Wu Fan’s hips he thinks there might be bruises there afterwards. He feels like he’s being filled entirely, too full, so full he could explode and yet he still wants more—Wu Fan’s body is selfish, desperate for every one of Junmyeon’s touches, every single thrust of Junmyeon’s cock inside him.
Wu Fan pants nonsense, Junmyeon’s name and curses and pleas all wrapped up in some kind of language mixture that even he can’t make sense of. But it doesn’t matter, really, because at least Junmyeon is finally fucking him.
When Wu Fan’s thighs start shaking so badly that he’s not sure he’ll be able to stay up anymore, Junmyeon slows down, pressing deep and stilling before he wraps his arm around Wu Fan’s middle. “Come on,” he says, hauling Wu Fan upright—the change in angle lets Junmyeon sink just a little deeper, and they both moan, Wu Fan trembling with the onslaught. “Think you can stay like this, duizhang?” Junmyeon asks, his hand pressing flat against Wu Fan’s lower belly like he wants to feel his cock move inside Wu Fan’s body.
Wu Fan exhales shakily. “Just move,” he demands, reaching up to push some hair off his forehead. His ponytail is a mess now, unsurprisingly, and the tendrils keep sticking to Wu Fan’s sweaty face and neck—he’s drenched, he knows he is, but he doesn’t care, because it makes the slide of his skin against Junmyeon’s that much smoother.
Physically, the size difference between them is huge, but Junmyeon has strength and force of will that has nothing to do with stature. He has it in him to hold Wu Fan down and make him feel, and he has no problem doing just that.
Junmyeon braces himself and moves, and the first thrust puts his cock right up against Wu Fan’s prostate. Wu Fan can’t help it—he shouts, reaching back to dig his fingernails into Junmyeon’s thigh, his hips rocking to meet every one of Junmyeon’s upward thrusts. The new angle means that Junmyeon hits his prostate not on every thrust, but close to it, and it doesn’t take long before Wu Fan’s head is nothing more than a white haze of impending orgasm.
“Please,” Wu Fan manages, his voice raw. “Touch me—please, ah—”
Junmyeon laughs, the sound low and totally destroyed, half-muffled against Wu Fan’s shoulderblade. “No,” he says, and the word sends a spark of heat through Wu Fan’s nerves, makes arousal pool hot in the pit of his stomach, pushing him another inch higher. “I want you to come from this alone. No touching.”
No touching. Wu Fan can do no touching. It isn’t the first time that Junmyeon has made him get off hands-free.
Pressing his hips back to meet Junmyeon’s, Wu Fan focuses—as best he can, anyway—and adjusts, until Junmyeon’s cock is hitting his prostate dead-on with each thrust and Wu Fan can’t hear over the buzzing in his head, the incessant, unforgiving need to come. “Junmyeon,” he gasps, his voice giving out halfway through the word, “I’m gonna—ah, fuck, please—”
“Come, duizhang,” Junmyeon says, and Wu Fan does.
He has a brief moment, right before he comes, where Wu Fan is almost embarrassed that the last word out of his mouth was a plea. But then he’s coming, hard, on his own stomach and thighs and on Junmyeon’s thighs, on the sheets, it seems like everywhere except that Wu Fan is so fucked out, so blissed that he can’t even bring himself to give a single shit. Junmyeon is still fucking him, and Wu Fan is whimpering, fuck, he’s not even ashamed, whimpering on every thrust, until Junmyeon finally bites down on the back of Wu Fan’s shoulder and comes with a shudder and a low, desperate groan.
Wu Fan has no idea how long it takes for him to come back to his senses, but when he does, he’s stretched out on the bed and his sheet is on the floor. He’s also remarkably semen-free, as is Junmyeon, who’s stretched out next to him and tracing patterns on the surface of Wu Fan’s stomach. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Junmyeon says with a smile, and Wu Fan shivers at the tendrils of pleasure still trailing lazily through his nervous system. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’m really lucky I don’t have to dance tomorrow,” Wu Fan says, wincing when his voice comes out raw and sore. He feels exhausted, like all his limbs are weight down with lead, and he knows that tomorrow—or whatever, whenever he next wakes up—is going to hit him like a ton of bricks.
Still, Wu Fan can’t find it in himself to regret a moment.
“Happy birthday,” Junmyeon says, leaning down to press a kiss against Wu Fan’s mouth. It’s soft again, gentle, a counterpoint to the way Junmyeon had been handling Wu Fan only minutes—hours? Who knows—ago, but Wu Fan likes it, and he brings one hand up to cup Junmyeon’s jaw and pull him close for another.
When they part, Junmyeon hums and curls into Wu Fan’s side. Wu Fan lets his fingers fall to Junmyeon’s hair, threading through dark strands. “Can we do this for half-birthdays, too?” he asks aloud, looking up at the ceiling. “And quarter-birthdays? And like, every month on the day that would be my birthday if it were November?”
The laugh Junmyeon gives is surprised, but pleased, and it settles nicely inside Wu Fan’s ribcage. “Yeah,” he agrees, his breath warm on Wu Fan’s skin. “Yeah, I could live with that.”
--------------------
AUTHOR'S NOTES: UM I GUESS I ACCIDENTALLY—?! this is literally all konnie's fault and i can't even. konnie i hope you are happy with yourself and/or i hope you forgive me if this sucks please don't kill me aiight yeah. I DID NOT REALLY WRITE THIS FIC WITH "BIRTHDAY SEX" AS MY THEME SONG I PROMISE...
on the bright side this fic made me at least one friend so i guess it's not all bad?!
the prompt that started it all: "what if suho makes kris beg for the d for his birthday"